


New beginnings

by maruzze



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Mild Gore, how i think it went since we know little, very mild not a very explicit description, young lucio and julian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maruzze/pseuds/maruzze
Summary: He had war in his blood. It was his destiny, but there was no harmony in his movements or his technique. It was desperate, impulsive and cruel. Covered in red, from head to toe, to hide the blood which warmed up his skin and made it disgustingly sticky. The feeling was so familiar, though, he couldn’t imagine a life without the violence.





	New beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> So, my first fic for The Arcana. I like exploring backgrounds so, yeah.  
Hope it's at least decent, I think it's my longest work yet.

The sound of weapons, metal against metal, flesh and dirt. The stench of blood alongside sweat. The chorus of screams and yells, victorious shrieks and desperate cries. He knew all those sounds all too well, they were forged in his memory since early age, from the safety of his tribe.

He had war in his blood. It was his destiny, but there was no harmony in his movements or his technique. It was desperate, impulsive and cruel. Covered in red, from head to toe, to hide the blood which warmed up his skin and made it disgustingly sticky. The feeling was so familiar, though, he couldn’t imagine a life without the violence.

His allies, ever changing, would crawl around the battlefield all around him. He would run, jump, fight at their side for as much as it would take. Days, weeks, months. Until it gave him food, shelter and adrenaline it was enough to pick up a sword and swing it around.

He knew enough about who was paying him not to kill them during a battle and they stayed out of his way not for fear, but because they despised him, everything he was about and everything about him. He didn’t care, didn’t even remember their names as it was not necessary. He would charge, kill some poor fools who crossed his path and then returned to his tent.

Every moment not in the battlefield, it was spent in his tent. He started to grow sick of the same thin walls, of the same stinking bed and the same solitude. He wasn’t made for staying by himself, since childhood he was surrounded by people who would stick around for a reason or the other. But he couldn’t let himself grow weak or soft around the soldier he was supposed to aid. Nothing comes from being nice and pleasant in an environment like those he was used to hang out in.

So, he’d have to sit inside, listening to the chatter and occasional laughter of other men and women who were busy around camp. He’d see their shadows outside at night and hear the buzz of words during the day. It felt even more frustrating when he could feel the presence of other people around, barely letting loose around those he was supposed to protect. But it was one-sided, he was sure of it: they never came into his tent to ask him to join, they never talked to him first and the only times he seemed to have any resemblance of human contact was during battles.

It should feel weird that the cherished those fatal moments so much. When he could break free from the chains of his self-isolation to chase enemies, do what he was born to do. He could get praise, he could get attention, everyone’s eyes were on him when he stalked the battlefield looking for his next victim with the same rage and vicious willfulness of a predator. It was his call and would respond to it as much as he could, with the repressed enthusiasm and energy he didn’t have the possibility to get out otherwise.

But even the most powerful of lions would succumb to wounds. It happened to him often, he’d simply carry on and get patched up when the sun set as he was forced to return to the camp. In a way, he didn’t mind getting hurt if it meant he could talk to the medic of the camp for a few minutes as they absentmindedly cleaned him up and sent him his way to take care of other fighters. But one day, a moment of mortal recklessness, he launched himself at a particularly strong opponent who didn’t budge under his attack. They raised their weapon at him and hit. Precise and sturdy, the opponent got him on the arm.

In the shock, he didn’t manage to dodge their hands as they pushed him on the ground and at the feet of a horde of soldiers. He could feel the boots close to his ears and the blood flowing from his new wound, dirtying his clothes. The fingers around the weapon got weaker and weaker as his other hand went to cover the injury only to find a deep, lengthy cut. But he had to carry on, he couldn’t let this field be his tomb along with the useless piece of trash who were pathetic enough to fall.

He got up and gripped his sword with all the strength he had left. His pride swelled in his chest and he went after the same warrior, who probably left him for dead under the crushing steps of the army. He swung his weapon, but the wound pulsated violently and he could use much less force than he was used to. He got to hit the other’s shoulder, but they turned quickly and looked quite surprised of facing the same man who approached them before. They took a quick glance at the arm they hit before, noticing the deep cut in his flesh with a menacing light shining being their pupils.

Blinded by the anger and the loss of blood, he couldn’t quite catch how dangerous it was to challenge someone, anyone, as the arm he used to fight was weaker, bleeding. He raised it, though, ready to go for the hit when his opponent grabbed him, with their palm directly pressing on the open wound. He let out a shriek of pain, letting go of the sword, and started to desperately pry the hand away from him to get any kind of relief. It wasn’t the first time he thought about fleeing a battle, he was so used to the feeling of fear for his life, but this time he didn’t have the opportunity or the possibility as the fingers of this warrior sunk into is arm to the point he could feel them hovering over his bones.

He was trying with pathetic theatrics to get away. Kicking, screaming, scratching at the other as the injury was coloring both of them a warm, sticky red. Then he saw the other handle something and getting it closer to his arm. It was a short knife, still shiny as if it never saw the light during a war. He started to panic and his mind was clouded as he tried with even more force to get away, to the point he could feel his shoulder complain against the strain he was putting on it.

The other let him go and he fell on his back, against the dirt with his wound still painfully throbbing for the pressure. In a moment, not even the time to regain sight from the shock, the warrior was over him and directing the knife into his wound. They dragged it down to open it up even more, laughing like a maniac at the horrified cry of the young man under them. He didn’t even notice when someone threw the opponent off him and picked him up, the corners of his vision were getting progressively darker and his brain was ringing any kind of bell as the debilitating pain in his arm. He was carried away from the battlefield, but his delirious mind couldn’t register anything that wasn’t the immediate danger. He lost focus and consciousness as the figure of the warrior disappeared among the hundreds of men and women busy fighting until he passed out and fell into a blank sleep.

When he woke up, he was laying down on something softer than the bare ground and the roof of a tent was above him. He could hear laments all around him, most were low and akin to grumbles of someone who got a light, annoying cold, but some were whinier and more persistent. If he had the strength to talk or vocalize anything, he would probably join the chorus with his own irritating voice, but all he could do at that moment was turn his head to the side and look around the makeshift infirmary of the camp. There were a lot of soldier, some even badly injured and covered in blood. Some were up and chatting up other people around them, bandaged up yet seemingly fine.

As he felt his consciousness come back to him, he groaned loudly and tried to sit up on his bunk as he felt a sharp pain in his arm when he tried to balance himself on it, which made him let out a pitiful yelp. Suddenly he heard rushed steps to his other side and a hand pressing on his chest as it shoved him back down.

“Sorry, sorry, can’t let you do that.” The man over him was quick to talk and he shook his head while visibly shaking his finger right in front of his face. “If my mentor saw you get up, I’d have to deal with an earful.”

Then, as soon as the mercenary’s back was again against the crude bed on the ground and his growl of frustration was promptly ignored, the apparent doctor quickly went for the arm that sent him in that place. He lightly told how he just had to check it up since now he was awake and he wouldn’t wake him up, risking a punch in the face. He didn’t care for his humor in that moment, just gritting his teeth at the position he was in and the memory of his defeat on the field. At least he was still alive.

“Uh oh.” The voice of the doctor came out as a shock to his ears and he threw the dirtiest look he could manage at his face, then shifting his gaze to his arm. He felt like puking right at that moment: the injury obviously got badly infected, maybe due to the wait or maybe due to the dirt or the knife or anything else, but it was intensely festering. The doctor fumbled upon his own words for a few seconds before taking a breath and trying to grin at the mercenary.

“I will, uhm, go call my mentor.” He got up and looked around quickly. “She will know what to do, yes, she will. You will be fine in no time.” He seemed to spot who he was looking for because he bolted in a specific direction, leaving his patient laying down and festering in his own rage as thought after thought run in his mind. Now he had to wait until this stupid injury was healed. But what if it took months? He’d be useless for these people and probably would be booted from the camp, with maybe the payment he was owned thrown after him. He’d have to fetch for himself with a diseased arm and somehow find some other job while he waited it out.

As his thoughts raced at full speed and the irritation continued to grow inside his chest, the doctor approached again with someone at his heels. The newcomer swat down to take a look at his arm and he just glared at them, but they didn’t seem as focused on the patient as they are on the wound. They squint at it and hover their fingers over the slit, puffed up and almost sickly yellow. They had a grimace on their face and sighed heavily after a few minutes.

“It’s very bad.” They stood up and started to talk with the other doctor. “I don’t think we can do much or it will spread before we can contain it.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. He looked over the man standing above him, who seemed rather nervous and worried. He said that they had to do something, maybe draining the blood or isolating the arm or this or that. Some of the solutions sounded absurd even to the ear of the mercenary and the tension between the two physicians did nothing to ease his nerves.

“I think we can only amputate it.” The older doctor sentenced, and he shot up with such speed and force that he felt dizzy. His voice regained all its power just to let out a shrill to declare his personal opinion over the diagnosis. They startled both doctors and he was quickly rushed to lay back down, as the older one explained in too technical terms that they had no means to cure him quickly in a camp in the middle of a war. His face flushed with red for the rage and he screamed directly at them about their incompetence.

“You can’t do that! I have to work with my hands, I can’t lose an entire fucking arm!” As he yelled and thrashed under the pressure of the younger medic arms, the older one called over some other people who appeared to be their assistants as well. They were instructed to pick up the patient up to escort him elsewhere and to use some magical tricks to soothe the poor guy so they could proceed.

He was quickly taken from the most physically imposing of the assistants, while another got to his side in order to inject some odd type of magic into his body. He slowly felt his mind relax along with his body as he stopped trying to kick, punch or scratch the person who was carrying him. All around him, soldiers were observing the scene as he was brought to his personal tent and put on his own bed.

Following the hulking doctor and the mercenary were the old one and the man who first talked to him, holding what looked like instruments of torture. While conscious, the patient was groggy enough not to oppose the force that pressed him down against the bunk and the two doctors approached his side.

“Julian, want to do the honors?” The tone of the physician was way too relaxed in his opinion when talking about amputating one of his limbs, but the younger doctor just let out a surprised sure and reached for the right tools in order to complete the operation. The arm was prepared, a bit more force was applied to his chest just to be sure, and soon enough he had to turn his head at the agonizing spectacle. They were trying their best not to make him feel anything, with magic or tonics, but he heard the sounds and the sensation of the blood as it flowed down his skin, pooling on the ground. He felt the scraping of the saw on his flesh, but with the absence or near absence of pain, which made his stomach turn in eerie ways at the sheer absurdity of the sensation.

It took less time than he thought it would, but the minutes dragged out as he was living them. His head stayed turned the other way as his arm was stitched and medicated to prevent the spreading of his infection to other parts of his body. He didn’t care though; he couldn’t see the need to do something so drastic against his own will. What for? He could wait some weeks for the wound to heal and go his merry way to find some other employer.

As he was left to grumble and fester in his own emotions, the doctors around him started to talk among themselves. They said how they would check on him later, they should leave him alone, departing a little later. In the newfound silence of his tent, the reality of what happened crashed down on him even if the spell used to sedate him was still having a slight effect, softening his usual explosive temper. He rolled on his side, hiding his amputated arm under his body and fixed his gaze on the wall of the tent in front of him.

He was tired, exhausted, but he didn’t want to sleep. He couldn’t stop his mind from racing, his thought spiraling rapidly at the prospects of what this new turn of events entailed. He would have to get a prosthetic, that was for sure. Would he still be able to work? Could magic work? What happens if it doesn’t work, was he supposed to rot like a pathetic wretch and die in poverty?

He slipped his other hand under his body, caressing the bandages that were covering his wound. Judging by the sensation, they were already soaked with blood and the feeling of his own fingers over the closed slit didn’t bring pain or discomfort, making him snarl at the odd feeling. He spent some time like that, listening once again at the chatter outside his tent, but without hearing anything beyond a buzz and a growing annoyance at the increasing volume of the voices. He could almost feel his teeth crack from how strongly he was clenching his jaw.

Then he heard footsteps behind him and he focused on reality for the first time since he was left alone. He progressively curled up onto himself, in a protective position, but he turned around with incredible speed with a mixture of paranoia and aggravation. The man who entered his tent was thrown back at his reaction and stopped mid step, before setting down his foot without moving further. He recognized the young doctor from before.

“Hello.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m here to check on you.” He stayed still without showing intention to approach his patient further until he was asked to do so. The mercenary just groaned and laid down, looking away before telling him to do whatever he had to do. So, the doctor kneeled at his side, checked his arm and then reapplied new, fresh, clean bandages.

But he didn’t leave. Instead he set his instruments aside and leaned back to shift position, sitting down to be more comfortable. The mercenary was confused by this and glared at him. A few seconds passed in complete silence and then the man tensely stuttered before being able to talk properly.

“I know it’s probably upsetting, but I can guarantee you it was for the best.” He managed to even end the sentence with some semblance of confidence, looking down at the mercenary. He scoffed as an answer.

“It wasn’t necessary.” He didn’t bother to contain the venom dripping from his words, whatever dramatization was lacking from the complexity of the sentence was gained by the tone and expression he was displaying on his face. This time the doctor was the one to sneer, his face cracking into a derisive grin.

“I trust the judgement of my mentor more than yours.” He crossed his arms and looked over the other man’s face, noticing the evident rage. “I’m sure you will be just fine, you can always go back home.”

At those words, the mercenary froze. That was the last of his intentions, he’d probably let himself die before he could return to his homeland, but the result would be the same in either case. Once again, the reality of his situation made its way into his mind and he looked away from the doctor, who looked rather surprised by the reaction.

“Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He was quick to apologize, thinking he must have touched a nerve and a pretty raw one at that. He glanced at the entrance of the tent, but he felt like he couldn’t leave his patient to wallow in whatever dark thoughts he was left.

“What’s your name?” The other looked at him again and raised an eyebrow, not sure why he was asking such a stupid question. He decided to give no motive. “You already know my name. It’s Julian.”

The mercenary just stared at him. His name. He didn’t use his name in a while, usually people didn’t care about that even if he made a contract. Last time his name was used? He winced at the memory and remembered a little tip. Only a fool would reveal their true name, right?

“Lucio.” He didn’t think too much of it, but he felt like it fitted. He gave a name, one that he heard around camp or in other battles, he wasn’t sure. The doctor tilted his head and looked pensive for a second.

“You come from Vesuvia?” At the name of the city, the mercenary was taken aback. He barely ever heard of the place. It was small, a city on the sea, no one really thought too much about it besides as a minor market and its apparent pacific society. “I have no idea how it was when you were younger, but it’s a pretty nice city. Why wouldn’t you go back?”

He sounded confused, but the mercenary – _Lucio_ – didn’t care. An opportunity to turn everything around, to hide and find something to do. He was sure in that city he would be able to find something to do, he heard of fighting games being regularly thrown, made a show out of them. He sat up, grinning at the man in front of him.

“You know, you’re right. Maybe it’s time to go back home.”


End file.
